Chapter Text
Killua’s feet blister as he paces back and forth in the suffocating apartment. It’s been hours, yet Godspeed refuses to come to life. Or, more concerningly, his Nen is seemingly fading. As if the tether he has to his world gets thinner and thinner as time goes by, severing the strong control he once had on all aspects of his Nen.
He should’ve felt it. The decrease in energy. The exhaustion. But for the past few months, Killua’s been running on pure adrenaline and a ghastly amount of sugar.
The stress of Alluka in this world, lost and confused and possibly hurt, has kept him from any semblance of sleep. And when his mind isn’t plagued with how much he’s worried about his sisters, he thinks of Gon. How he may be wondering why his “best friend” hasn’t answered his phone in months. Possibly weeks, possibly years, because Killua still can’t figure out how time flows here compared to home and it’s eating him alive.
Feverish fingers tug at the collar of his already-mangled shirt. Whatever stitching that’s kept him whole all these years is coming undone. He’s splitting at the seams, and the foul-smelling past is tumbling out from the tears in his flesh.
Killua knows what it’s like to be broken. To fall apart. To nearly lose everything. But now that he’s truly lost everything, he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold on.
He isn’t sure when it happened, but at some point, his heartbeat began to quicken, migrating to his throat and echoing in his ears. His breaths are short and uneven. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to get enough air.
Slowly, Killua sinks to the floor in the middle of the kitchen. He stares at the stained wall opposite of him, his insides a tattered mess.
He’s stranded. It’s as if he’s in the middle of an ocean, and all he can see is the haunting blue of the water, reminding him of how alone he is. Of how helpless he is.
Suddenly, he hears two raps at the door.
The sound pulls him to the present. Absently, the smell of mildew and fish embedded beneath the peeling wallpaper stings his nose. He takes a deep breath in a feeble attempt to find some sort of ground to stand on.
Killua lifts himself up, cringing at how shaky his legs are. He makes his way toward the door and rests his hand in the doorknob. Paint is peeling off the frame, and the wood itself is old and rough. A cold chill snakes up his spine. He feels weak, and he hates it.
The hairs on his neck stand up. An unmistakable (and vaguely familiar, he thinks distantly) bloodlust spikes his senses. But when he tries to reach for a defensive wall of Ren, he’s reminded how loose his control over his Nen currently is. Instead, Killua grabs the small butterfly knife sitting on the table beside the door and ticks it comfortably beneath his sleeve.
Steadily, his reasoning comes back to him. No one should be knocking on his door. He purposefully chose such a sketchy apartment complex to avoid being noticed. Opening the door comes with an inherent danger - it’s a risk, which he can’t afford to take too many of, especially now.
But what if they have information? This world is huge, similar to his old one, and someone had to know something. Whoever is outside could very well be the difference between him finding Alluka and Nanika and going home, or staying here, stuck and alone, forever.
Taking a deep breath, Killua turns the doorknob and cracks the door slightly.
He’s surprised, to say the least.
A schoolgirl greets him with a too-wide smile. Messy blonde layers of hair spill onto her shoulders, and her uniform is torn and smudged with dirt. The girl is eerily familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t figure out where he last saw her.
“Woah, you’re even cuter up close like this!” She squeals. “Sorry, sorry, I haven’t properly introduced myself yet.” Killua watches as she turns around, whispers a few things to herself, then twirled back around, as if she’d needed to get into character.
“The name’s Himiko, the cutest girl you’ll ever meet!” Himiko poses like some Shoujo protagonist. Killua deadpans. A few bloated seconds pass before he slams the door in her face.
“Wait!” She says, her shouts muffled behind the closed door. “I don’t have anywhere else to go…! Killu-kun, why’re you being so mean?”
Killua swings the door back open. “How do you know my name?”
Something sinister festers behind her eyes, and Killua recognizes it instantly. That’s the same look he had, when he was an active assassin.
“Zoldyck Killua, student of the hero course at UA High School - but a little birdie told me that you prefer to go by Ghost.” Killua is overcome with an icy realization.
This girl shouldn’t know this. Shouldn’t know any of this. He was sure he covered his tracks, but the internet systems here are wildly different than the ones back home.
Killua stares at her, wide-eyed. Again, she flashes that grin. His stomach twists. Who is she?
***
Fabric and hair graze against her sides. The crowd breathes onto her, unknowingly giving a hollow cadaver a taste of humanity. Blood pumps through its flesh, and she feels the heartbeat of society push her further and further away into its gutters.
A woman nurses a scraped knee on the sidewalk. The iron-like smell is thick in the air. She tastes it on her tongue, salty and stinging and sweet and suffocating-
She sucks in a breath. No, not now. Himiko pushes through the wall of people, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. She knows she hasn’t lost them - the Yakuza has people everywhere. She hopes she put a great enough distance between whoever is currently tailing her and herself, though. Her blood supply is drained, so she’s out of options if they choose to attack.
An old man shoves her to the side. He looks back at her with a nasty sneer. Her seifuku has certainly seen better days.
Over the years, she’s discovered that the world is a little bit kinder to a put-together schoolgirl. She’s out of uniform; it makes sense that people treat her a bit differently. She hopes her appearance doesn’t bother her new friend as much.
She first heard of him in whispers. Small pieces of information here and there. But she’ll never forget the day she met him.
She needed cash. Desperately. She caught word of a villain fight club - winners earned money - and decided to try her luck at it.
There she was, sitting at one of the only empty tables. Dim lights left the corners of the room shrouded in darkness. Each round took place at the center, an elevated square sectioned off with cheap dividers.
Despite the necessity, Himiko found herself too scared to fight. It’s funny; she’d killed a few people by then. All bloodied and tattered, her beautifully ruined masterpieces…
Instead, she watched as match after match took place. Rounds began to blend together, until she saw it.
A boy, clad in all black, approached the ring. He had a shock of white hair that covered his eyes, and a black mask that hid the rest of his face.
His opponent towered over him. The matchup seemed hilariously disproportionate. Some onlookers pitied the poor kid, while others placed their bets.
One moment, the boy sat silently on his side of the ring. The next, he hovered behind his opponent, hands delicately resting at his sides. Within seconds, the man dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled to the back of his head before he finally crumbled into a heap of limp muscle.
She’d never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like it. He hadn’t even come close to injury. Part of her frowned at that. Blood would look so good in his pale hair. She wanted it, that kind of security. Who would dare to reject her when she could take down her enemies like that?
Himiko followed him through the fight club. In a secluded corner, he collected a crisp envelope from one of the event organizers. His prize.
Her plan was foolproof; she’d round the corner and pretend to run into him, like in her favorite K-dramas. Who could resist such a cutie like her?
She squeezes her eyes shut. Despite the pounding of her heart in her chest, Himiko forced her feet to move forward. A small smile forms at the corners of her lips as she thinks about what he might say. Will he help her up? Ask if she’s hurt?
But the impact never comes.
“Why’re you following me?” Her eyes snap open. His voice is unsettlingly calm. Bored, even. But the edge was unmistakable. Did he see her?
His piercing blue gaze picked her apart. It was as if he reopened her wounds with his eyes, dissecting what made Himiko Himiko. She felt herself shrink under the direct attention.
“I - what?” She isn’t used to people noticing her…observation rituals.
“I said, ‘Why’re you following me?’. It’s creepy. And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Himiko tilts her head to the side and flashes an adorable smile.
“Like you’re about to eat me or something,” he says. Her eyes widen. How did he know?
“Here, take this and leave me alone.” He opens the envelope and pulls out ten thousand yen. “I have enough, anyway.” His arm is outstretched toward her, the cash wrinkled in his grip.
His nails are sharp and neat, clearly well-groomed. She almost wants to cut his hand off and keep it forever. Carefully, gently, she reaches toward him. Her knuckles against his, allowing the touch to linger a little longer than needed, before taking the money. Beautiful.
He makes a strange expression, his face twisted like he smelled something sour. She doesn’t blame him - the fight club is pretty stuffy, especially with all of these people sweating everywhere.
The next thing she knew, he was gone.
Later on, she’d learn that people called him Ghost - a befitting name for such an ethereal apparition.
That night, she’d searched all over the web for villain teens who matched his description, but to no avail. However, a few months later, she accidentally stumbled upon a new student at UA with those ocean blue eyes and white hair.
It wasn’t too difficult after that. Her years of internet stalking finally paid off, resulting in an address from the school’s student registry.
Chancing one last look over her shoulder, she stops in front of his door. An apartment complex on the outskirts of Musutafu. Eighth floor, door number twelve. Raising a shaky hand, Himiko gives in to a tentative knock.
A minute passes by. Then, two. At first, she worries he might not be home.
Suddenly, the doorknob twists. She holds her breath. Showtime.